


Romance and Romanticism

by Oilan



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Era, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Romanticism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-24
Updated: 2015-10-24
Packaged: 2018-04-27 21:58:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5065924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oilan/pseuds/Oilan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Romanticism once again spawns the unexpected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Romance and Romanticism

**Author's Note:**

  * For [akhilleus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/akhilleus/gifts).



> Many thanks to [Eglantine](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Eglantine) and [amelancholycharm](http://amelancholycharm.tumblr.com) for the betas, as well as [bobbiewickham](http://archiveofourown.org/users/bobbiewickham) for helping me with the overall plot of this fic.

Everything considered, Jean Prouvaire’s _unique_ gatherings were not something Combeferre found particularly appealing. Romanticism, he had realized, was somewhat lost on him, though he supposed he could appreciate it for what it was, and at a distance. Still, he had accepted Prouvaire’s party invitation anyway, under the impression that the majority of their friends were attending and not wanting to appear rude. At the very least, he would have someone he already knew to keep him company.

This assumption proved to be a mistake. Feuilly had to work the following day. Bahorel had an engagement with his mistress. Joly, Bossuet, and Grantaire had already promised to attend a different soirée the same evening. And Courfeyrac, with an uncharacteristically grim expression, had merely said, “I’ve attended a party thrown by Prouvaire once before- and once was quite enough.”

The prospect of spending an evening alone in a room of, most likely, opium-addled poets with whom he had nothing in common, was a grave one. Combeferre lamented of this to Enjolras during their breakfast one morning.

“I cannot believe I didn’t check with everyone else before I accepted the invitation. I don’t think there is anywhere else on earth I would be more out of place.”

To Combeferre’s considerable surprise, Enjolras smiled slightly. “Well, I could accompany you, since you have already given your word you would attend.”

Combeferre, though justifiably confused, found he was not at all displeased. “I would have thought you’d find this sort of thing even less appealing than I do,” he said.

“Yes- I suppose I do,” Enjolras lowered his gaze to the café table at which they sat, poking at the dregs of his coffee with a spoon. “But I’m ahead of schedule on my correspondence and writing, and classwork can wait. We can’t have you walking into the, ah- _poet’s_ den without the proper safety measures.”

“Oh?”

“What if you came away wanting to drink from skulls more than you wanted to study them?”

Combeferre couldn’t help but laugh. “Well, _God forbid!_ I wouldn’t be myself.”

“No, you wouldn’t- and I would not stand for it. “ Enjolras smiled a bit wider and placed a gentle hand on Combeferre’s arm. Sudden warmth bubbled up in Combeferre’s chest, and was automatically suppressed. He cleared his throat.

“Well, I’m _profoundly_ grateful to you, then. If Romanticism begins to infect me, I’m sure you will be more than capable of a rescue mission.”

“I should hope so,” Enjolras said thoughtfully. “Though if you’ve heard Prouvaire recount what happened at the premiere of that _play,_ we may be in trouble. Apparently, these Romantics are not to be trifled with.”

“I’ll be certain not to mention classicism,” said Combeferre, chuckling. “A riot would certainly put a damper on the evening.”

 

* * *

 

As it happened, it was Enjolras who was more in need of rescue than Combeferre- and not from any rampaging poets.

On the evening of the party, Enjolras and Combeferre caught a fiacre for the short ride to Prouvaire’s flat across the river. The sitting room of the apartment was cluttered with all manner of old and dusty objects, dimly lit, and crowded with people. Prouvaire greeted the pair cheerfully when he spotted them, but seemed too involved in a passionate debate about _Hernani_ with several of his fellows to tear himself away. Wisely, or so Combeferre and Enjolras thought, they steered themselves away from the conversation.

Combeferre saved a place at a small table, half-hidden in a corner beneath dusty drapery while Enjolras set out across the room to fetch refreshments. He was almost immediately waylaid by one of Prouvaire’s friends, who had swiftly stepped back from his own group and into Enjolras’ path. Combeferre’s heart sank as Enjolras stiffened in discomfort, but the man speaking with him was either oblivious to this or ignored it, smiling a little too sweetly, clearly keen on charming Enjolras into a conversation.

Though Combeferre was sitting too far away to hear exactly what was being said, he could make out that Enjolras’ initial response was polite, if aloof, as he tried to sidestep the other man. Prouvaire’s friend was persistent, however, crowding Enjolras between himself and the table laid with refreshments. With a second, much more curt tone, Enjolras brushed past him to rejoin Combeferre with the wine and pastries he had procured. His face was sullen as he sank into his own chair, pointedly avoiding the interloper’s continued leer.

Combeferre frowned. “Perhaps we shouldn’t have come here after all.”

“Nonsense,” Enjolras said quietly. “It’s nothing.”

“We can leave as soon as you like,” Combeferre assured him, and tentatively clasped Enjolras’ hand on top of the table. “I don’t want you to be uncomfortable, especially considering you came here for my sake.”

Prouvaire’s friend, who had determinedly made to follow Enjolras, stopped short and eyed the pair appraisingly. This did not escape Enjolras’ notice. He glanced at the other man, and then turned back to Combeferre questioningly.

“It’s all right.” Combeferre squeezed Enjolras’ hand a bit tighter and smiled. “I suppose this is one way to ward off unwanted admirers.” He looked at the man again over Enjolras’ shoulder. He still seemed to be debating trying his luck with Enjolras. “Though I doubt this will keep them at bay for long.”

“Hmm.” Enjolras hesitated and then, much more awkwardly than he would have done under any other circumstances, slipped an arm around Combeferre’s shoulders. Combeferre found his side flush against Enjolras’ chest, and his cheeks grew hot as Enjolras settled next to him. “Convincing enough?”

“I-“ Enjolras was very solid and warm against him. Combeferre swallowed, startled at his own reaction to the touch. “Convincing enough for now, anyway.”

“A clever ruse.”

“Hmm.” Combeferre shifted slightly.

“And ah…” Enjolras’ voice was very quiet. “…Not unpleasant, in its way.”

Something in Combeferre’s chest tightened, and he was obliged to take a deep, slow breath to loosen it.

They sat like that, in companionable silence, for what seemed a long while. No one approached Enjolras again, though a few people were still looking here and there; Combeferre could feel their gazes. He was impossibly warm, and could feel every press and shift of Enjolras against himself. Enjolras absentmindedly ran his thumb over Combeferre’s knuckles where their hands were still entwined on the tabletop. Though he fought the sensation, Combeferre’s head swam from the touch as much as from the pipe smoke filling the room.

The air closed thick around them, laden with the heavy fumes of opium and tobacco. Enjolras, the drapery above them, _everything_ pressed too near, and yet Combeferre found himself wanting to stay exactly where he was.

Admonishing himself for being selfish, Combeferre raised his head to look at Enjolras. “We’ve been here for at least a quarter hour.” Combeferre swallowed, and then continued reluctantly. “We could take our leave, if you would like.”

Enjolras hesitated. “No… ah- Prouvaire would surely be disappointed if we left so soon after arriving. We wouldn’t want him to get the impression we weren’t enjoying ourselves.”

Somewhat befuddled, Combeferre glanced across the room. Prouvaire was still deep in discussion with a group of his peers, taking long drags from his pipe, gesticulating with a glass of absinthe clutched in his other hand. He did not seem to be aware of anything else around him. Combeferre opted not to point this out.

Having taken stock of the room again, Combeferre noticed a few people still eyeing Enjolras and, unexpectedly disgruntled by this, cast around for another way to discourage them. His eyes fell upon a bowl of half-dried red tulips resting on a dilapidated chest of drawers nearby.

“Here.“ Combeferre, certain he was both half-mad and half-stifled, plucked one of the flowers from the bowl and slipped it to Enjolras. “Perhaps we need to do something a bit more obvious. Put that in my lapel- people are still looking.”

In full sight of everyone around them, Enjolras obliged and carefully slipped the flower into Combeferre’s buttonhole. A grisette behind Enjolras appeared to give up on him, and turned to chat with her neighbor instead. Enjolras breathed a nearly silent sigh of relief.

“You see,” said Combeferre, his voice a bit hoarse. “A very romantic gesture.”

“Perhaps both romantic and Romantic,” Enjolras said, leaning a bit closer and gently touching the flower’s drying petals. The sparse light from the lamp on their table played off his hair, casting shadows where his eyes were downcast and illuminating the soft, pale skin of his cheek.

The breath caught in Combeferre’s throat. Before he could stop himself, before he was even aware of what he was doing, he closed the last hair’s breadth between them and brushed his nose against Enjolras’ jawline. For a moment, they were warm and still and comfortable, their confining surroundings forgotten, but then Enjolras tilted his head back slightly, and this acquiesce startled Combeferre back to reality. He jolted out of his seat so quickly he nearly upended their table.

“I-“ Blushing furiously, Combeferre struggled to get ahold of himself, trapped in the close quarters of the room. “We should go.”

Enjolras stared at him. “All right. Whatever you like.”

Combeferre entirely neglected to thank Prouvaire for the invitation and bid him farewell, so desperate was he to get out of the flat and into the fresh air. The fiacre ride home was silent and awkward; Enjolras kept casting concerned glances in Combeferre’s direction, though Combeferre kept his gaze determinedly fixed on the floor of the carriage, shoulders tense.

For the first time in his life, Combeferre wished he and Enjolras were not neighbors. It would be infinitely better, he thought, to return to his flat completely alone, to save face by pretending this night had never happened and emerge in the light of day once he had gathered his wits. He could only imagine what Enjolras must have thought of him.

The fiacre let the pair off in front of their adjacent buildings, on the little Rue des Marais. They stood facing each other for a moment, utterly silent. Before Combeferre could muster the resolve to say a single word or even look up from the ground, Enjolras reached out a tentative hand. With gentle fingers, he smoothed Combeferre’s lapel, and adjusted the wilted flower at his chest where it had become lopsided.

Combeferre looked up at last, and though he meant to bid Enjolras a good night, to pull away and return to his rooms, the words stuck in his throat. The fogginess of Prouvaire’s flat had cleared away, but the heavy ache in his chest remained. He wondered, a little desperately, if there was any way to pretend his behavior had all been an act for Enjolras’ sake.

Enjolras himself gazed at him pensively for a moment and then, as though he thought Combeferre might jerk away again, leaned down very slowly and pressed their lips together.

The kiss was very chaste and very brief, but Enjolras looked more concerned than Combeferre had ever seen him as he pulled back. Combeferre’s thoughts were swimming again.

“Combeferre, I-“ Enjolras drew a slightly shaky breath. “Forgive me if I’ve misinterpreted, but-“

“No,” Combeferre said, shock ebbing away. “No, you-“ But the rest of whatever he had wanted to say was lost; he cupped Enjolras’ cheek and kissed him again.

It seemed impossible to believe that just half an hour before, Combeferre had been grappling with panic and suppressed tenderness. Everything had been turned on its head. He moved his lips against Enjolras’, intent, winding fingers in his hair so that Enjolras’ hat dropped to the ground. Temperance quickly fell away as Enjolras pulled Combeferre flush against himself, both heedless that they were still in the middle of the road, under a streetlamp where anyone might have seen. Any worry Combeferre may still have had inside of him dissipated as he felt the low moan in Enjolras’ chest, felt Enjolras smile against his mouth.

They had to part eventually, a long while later, to catch their breath, still clinging to each other. Combeferre pressed his face to Enjolras’ cravat, grinning like a fool and waiting for his heart to stop pounding, but Enjolras kept stroking his hair, and this did not help matters.

“I have the strange feeling,” said Enjolras slowly into Combeferre’s shoulder. “That odd things tend to happen in Prouvaire’s flat.”

“Perhaps that is why everyone else opted not to attend.” Combeferre pulled back slightly, smiling when Enjolras reached a hand up to brush the hair from his forehead. He could still smell the faintest whiff of smoke and dust on Enjolras’ frock coat. “They knew what we didn’t, and wisely avoided trouble. No being cornered by ardent admirers; no herds of rioting Romantics.”

“Perhaps.” Enjolras’ hand dropped to Combeferre’s side. “Though I feel I must admit- I’m thankful this night proved to be much more enjoyable than being trampled by wild Romantics.”

“That’s not a terribly high standard to set,” Combeferre laughed. “But I’m still _very_ happy to hear it.”

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies for poking fun at Romanticism yet again! Obviously, the play Enjolras and Combeferre have a laugh about was the wild premiere of Victor Hugo's _Hernani_.


End file.
